


Figs and Nutmeg

by scribblescribbles



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, filling the gaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 10:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17405414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblescribbles/pseuds/scribblescribbles
Summary: "I know it was not the battle in the distance she was watching. It was me. She watched me me as I watch him. Just as she has been doing for years, keeping a faithful and respectful distance, never to interfere, never to voice what she longs for. A familiar ache tightens my chest, for I know what coils behind her eyes. I know that feeling well."





	Figs and Nutmeg

I tell myself it is his victory I’m witnessing, not manslaughter. It is the image of glory what I should see everytime my eyes catch a glimpse of his blazing armor on the battlefield. The golden glare of it, as bright as the sun that I see embedded in his hair and his eyes too. No matter the lives he takes, no matter the blood he sheds, death does not -cannot- diminish his beauty.  
  
He leaves me in the morning clad in leather and bronze and comes back to me at sundown clad in red. A sight that strikes fear in his enemies’ hearts, a terror as sharp as his spear. Still, beyond the crusts or dried blood and dust, my eyes still see the young boy I grew to care for more than my own life. If I close my eyes, shut my senses, I can still find the sweetness of the figs we ate in summer in his father’s palace, when he kisses me with lips tainted with salt and death. If I summon my memory, I can still pretend time has stopped years ago, when we were just two boys finding love, blissfully unaware of the world outside of Chiron’s cave. Our happiness would flourish undisturbed and the world would never come to claim his life and mine along with it. No war, no battles, no gore, no glory. No _Aristos Archaion_.  
  
But after years of fighting on the plane outside the walls of Troy, reality is hard to sweeten with kisses and memories. Just like the wide open sea we crossed to come here has erased the sight of the coast of Greece where we grew up, time has swallowed the previous life we have led with its unforgiving tides. The pictures in my mind, once fresh and vibrant, are now fading with each day that passes with my feet on this dusty, foreign ground.  
  
It is in this land I despise, however, that his destiny lies. This dry land he drenches with the blood of his enemies is the land that will bear his legend. And I followed him here to assist to his triumph. There is no greater honor for one such as me than to witness the glory of Achilles, the greatest warrior of his generation. The best in all of Greece and in all the world. The best thing that has ever happened to me, the best part of myself. The sun to this sky of mine, overcast with dishonor and exile, the light I know I’m bound to loose to this war, designed by the Fates to fan his flame higher than any other mortal’s. It is uncanny, to witness his countless victories and triumphs, a legend made flesh, and knowing he’s bound to die.  
  
Chiron had once told us that heroes meet ends as tragic as their lives were great. If this is truly so, then Achilles must suffer the most cruel death, for I cannot imagine anyone greater than him.  
  
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air until the strain in my ribcage becomes uncomfortable. There is no fear in my at the thought of my death. It is the thought of his that fills me with dread. But there is some comfort in my decision: I will follow him to the end and beyond. If he is to die, I will follow too, for everything I am belongs to him.  
  
I would leave nothing behind. No family, no name, no glory. Any other Greek would shudder at the mere thought of such an end. But I am convinced at the bottom of my heart that no other Greek has loved as I have.  
  
None but one.  
  
I turn around. Briseis is standing a few steps behind me, holding a basket against her hip. The hen of her dress is dirtied by the dust and some strands of grass and small leaves stick to her dark skin, slightly damp with sweat. My eyes meet hers before she averts her gaze, almost apologetically, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have. It is just for a brief instant, but it is enough for me to notice the distress in her black, gentle eyes before they dart back to the ground, scanning the wood for mushrooms and herbs. She is tactful and ever caring in her watchfulness, discreet enough not to show what troubles her. Her body betrays her, however, letting her concern show in the frowning of her brow. Over the years, worry has drawn a harsh line across her once smooth forehead, a crease I have grown to recognize with time. A flaw I've learned, not without remorse, to be my fault.  
  
I know it was not the battle in the distance she was watching. It was me. She watches me me as I watch him. Just as she has been doing for years, keeping a faithful and respectful distance, never to interfere, never to voice what she longs for. A familiar ache tightens my chest, for I know what coils behind her eyes. I know that feeling well.

**Author's Note:**

> This novel is delightful but there was no three-way relationship in it and I feel it's a shameful lack, so I need to make up for it.


End file.
